One More
by DirkWildest
Summary: Set in the Mercedes Lackey & James Mallory Obsidian Universe, Danny Ocean and crew recruit Dirk Wilder instead of Linus. Hijinks ensue. Rated T for alcohol, language, crime.


I don't own Ocean's Eleven, and…Dirk's a historical figure? Can't really _own_ him….

"And Saul makes ten. Ten should do it, don't you think?" Danny asked, looking at the back of Rusty's head where it lay slumped on the bar.

Rusty, still tired from the day's long travels and recruiting, didn't even bother to move, just staring straight ahead into the fireplace.

"You think we need one more?"

No response.

"You think we need one more."

A slow blink, not that anyone but the fire could see it.

"Okay. We'll get one more."

* * *

The masked figure slipped through the Fey-styled columns of stylized vines gracefully forming careless patterns, his padded leather slippers betraying no noise to any listening ear. He moved swiftly and steadily through hall after hall, room after room, encroaching deeper and deeper into the depths of the Whipple estate.

…That masked figure is me, in case you couldn't tell. Dirk. Dirk Wilder. Lord Dirk Wilder, Professional Thief Extraordinaire, Master of Ravens, if you want to get all fancy about it.

This was the second time in two weeks I'd slipped in here, though this time it was just for business, rather than pleasure. At least it's still entertaining. Getting in the last time had been too easy, the extra guards focused on spotting out a false invitation or disguised servant. Surely no one would sneak in the proper way, the _civilized_ way, the way a thief is meant to. But I did, coming and going several dozen feet above the noses of the upper classes. Didn't they know who they'd challenged? Professionals have standards, dammit.

But that was all water under the viaduct now. Harsh words must have been had with the guard captain, and harsher still from he to the guards themselves. Recent events must have still been well stuck in their minds, because their eyes were sharp, their lights dipped into every nook and corner, their steps rang with injured pride.

But despite their newfound resolve, they still hadn't learned to look up.

It took under fifteen minutes to reach the manor's safe room—sorry, _dining room_. Honestly. As if anyone would leave a painting _that_ ugly where they had to look at it every day if they didn't have to. I lowered it down, pulled out my lockpicks with a flourish, and set to work with a grin hidden behind my mask.

Several moments later, the case was open, its freshly-installed poison-laced dart trap harmlessly embedded in a dense foam block carried for just such an occasion. But instead of the expected trade contracts, I was leaving with the safe's only contents—a business card, the back reading 'Nice crack! Interested in a team effort? Free lunch.' On the front, embossed in purple ink: The Grapes.

Now, no one has ever accused me of being a team player, but I figured this crew was at least worth a look. They seemed pretty slick of their own accord. Getting into the Whipple's place isn't easy when you aren't…

Well. When you aren't me. I'll not mince words.

But _they_ got in, whoever they are. And before I did. That means they're good. Plus they were respectful. Leaving their location like that, where it could have been seen if I didn't make it tonight…they even reset that trap. It shows trust in my abilities.

Plus the food at The Grapes is excellent, and I've known Old Man Ian for as long as I can remember. He might not run the place anymore, but he does pop in sometimes to run the trivia. The place is friendly, always busy but never packed, with a hum of conversation loud enough to cover illegal plotting. The regulars are smart enough to pretend I'm not there.

Either it's a genuine meet-up with some legitimately talented folks from my line of work or it's the most overcomplicated trap anyone's tried to foist on me.

Plus the food is great.

Yeah, I'll see what they want.

* * *

It wasn't hard to spot him—sitting off to the side, a half-empty Kings Apple at his right next to a ciabatta bowl of parmesan and steak. He looked up when I walked in and gave a little wave over the sheaf of papers in his hand—the Whipple contracts. Intelligent dark eyes sparkled out at me under gray-flecked dirty blonde hair.

_:Recognize everyone else inside. Outside is clear for at least two blocks. He's not in the physical condition to get the jump on me, let alone pursue. Unarmed. Right handed, cutlery can be slapped away, table pushed, be out the window in under two seconds. Leaves him soaked and bruised, I'm a block away and two stories up before he's got his wind back. And…:_

He knows that too. It's in his eyes, in the way he's leaning back to present as relaxed. I'm also guessing he didn't pick this place because he heard the food is good.

Okay. I appreciate good research. His job, his advantage. That's how it goes.

I walked over.

"Hello, Mister Wilder. Please, sit down." He said it calmly, ignoring the outfit better than anyone else in the room, despite being the only one looking at it.

"Who are you?"

"A friend of Argo's. Please, sit down."

As I sat, he continued. "Argo told me about you. Said you were the best set of hands she ever saw. They can do anything, according to her."

"Just about. I don't do spells, though. Leave that to the professionals."

"As you should. Well. To business?" He reached into his jacket and pulled out a scroll, setting it on the table with his right hand over it, the left over the Whipple contracts. "You're either in or out, right now."

"What is it?"

"A port to our planning office. A job offer."

That raised an eyebrow. "You're pretty trusting pretty fast."

"Argo has every faith in you."

"Wives can be like that."

That raised an eyebrow on its own. Minor victory.

"She didn't tell you?" I asked. As he shook his head, I nodded. "She doesn't want me trading on her name."

He rallied quickly. "You do this job, she'll be trading on yours."

"What if I say no?"

"We'll get someone else who won't be quite as good. You can go back to running jobs for cash and the thrill."

I considered it, looking at the scroll, then the contracts. It was one or the other.

A waitress passed, and the man signaled for his bill. What about my free lunch! Well, just for that….

When he turned back, I was puzzling my way through the scroll's arcane markings, and his hand was resting on the table.

"That's the best lift I've ever seen in my life," he offered.

"You didn't see it," I countered. "Sigil, huh?"

"The universe's playground."

* * *

If you have any questions about the Dirk-verse to use in your future endeavors, email questionsfordirk atsymbol g mail . com


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